


Furtive Principles

by Lyricaris



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/F, Femslash, Fluff and Smut, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:39:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27909862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyricaris/pseuds/Lyricaris
Summary: Two old coworkers, having left House, find an unexpected haven in each other's company. Set following S7 Ep 18, "The Dig."
Relationships: Allison Cameron/Remy "Thirteen" Hadley
Kudos: 12





	1. Foxhole [Allison]

**Author's Note:**

> I miss these characters, a lot, even though the show ended years ago. Was rewatching, wishing Cameron and Thirteen got more screentime together, when this scene just fell into my head. It was supposed to be a short little sketch, but I wrote a little more than I expected :P

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance encounter at a lesbian bar.

A bar probably wasn’t the best decision, in hindsight. For the first time since taking this new job, you’d gotten off work early—which, for you, meant on the edge of sunset but before dusk really set in. House used to say you had a savior complex, and while it always rankled, as you nurse your second vodka cranberry and feel the warmth of the alcohol tingling in your chest you’re forced to admit he might have been onto something. It feels…almost invalidating, not working late into the evening. Wanting to be needed shouldn't be a bad thing. It’s not like you _want_ more patients to come into the ER; you just don’t want to spend those hours after dinner staring at a dull television screen while sitting on the couch alone.

Several years ago, if it was possible to steal few hours from House’s cases on an evening like this, you know you’d be sitting in a similar establishment with Chase and Foreman. Back when your boss’s neuroticism was still intriguing—and, you’ll admit in the privacy of your own thoughts, a little erotic—the three of you spent hours laughing about him after work. It was enough, sometimes, to make the verbal abuse and mind games a little more bearable the next day. The thought makes you smile as you take another sip. It wasn’t an entirely bad run, your first few years in the department.

Robert went back to House, like you always knew he would. If you’re honest with yourself, it wasn’t surprising in the least. Even Foreman got sucked back in, and you wonder if you’d be able to blame him even if he'd had anywhere else to go. Ultimately, they both had more reasons to be there than you did. You’re not bitter anymore, you don’t think, now that Robert’s finally signed the papers and you don’t work in the same hospital anymore. But it hasn’t stopped being difficult—the being alone, more than anything. There were plenty of reasons to spend more time at work, where at least you felt useful.

You shake yourself out of your dreary thoughts, annoyed that you’re wandering down well-worn alleys toward known dead ends. The bar is relatively quiet, still too early to be truly busy even if it weren’t a weeknight. You’re considering calling it a day, heading home to catch a few extra hours of sleep instead, when you catch sight of the silhouette in the booth across the room.

The outline of brown hair and that elegant jaw nag at you for a second before it clicks, and suddenly the edge of your buzz clears away in a flash of recognition. No, it can’t be. Not here, not _now._ You thought she’d gone off to Rome.

You push your drink a few inches farther across the counter so you can lean forward and get a better look, and as she shifts in front of the window your suspicion shifts into an exhilarating certainty. You gulp down the last diluted dregs of liquid swimming in the ice at the bottom of your glass, smile at the bartender, and order another drink. She slides it over almost immediately, eyes lingering on your own. You thank her, and before you can back out, slide off of your stool and head across the room.

She doesn’t glance up until you’re standing a bit awkwardly at the edge of her table, trying your best not to look like you’ve just seen a ghost.

“Dr. Hadley!" you say, stumbling over the greeting. "Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Thirteen looks different, you think. Not older, exactly—it’s been barely over a year—but more tired, almost defeated. Whereas you’re hiding surprise and a bit of apprehension, she only seems mildly amused.

“Dr. Cameron.” She pauses, lips twitching slightly, green eyes boring into yours. “Wouldn’t expect to see _you_ here, either.”

You’re a little lost for words until you remember that _this_ particular establishment caters to women with rather specific preferences, and suddenly the color is rising in your cheeks. You look down at your shoes, face burning, and try to laugh. What are you supposed to say?

“Yeah,” you manage haltingly, “I needed a drink.” Inclining your head toward her table, you continue, “May I?”

“Please.”

She takes a sip from what you assume is a very dry martini as you sit down, shift in the seat until you’re comfortable.

“This is a quiet corner.”

“I wanted some space to myself,” Thirteen grins, and for a split second you’re a little blinded by the set of her jaw, how she looks just a little unhinged. “Although, I suppose I'm missing out on a few free drinks at the bar.”

More than a few, you bet. “Sorry for intruding.”

“Oh, don’t be. It’s nice to see an old colleague.”

“When did you…get back into town?”

“Today, actually.”

“Oh.” You swirl your straw around, glance at her over the rim of the glass. “Was Rome at all…helpful?”

She shrugs, less relaxed now. “Wouldn’t know. Never went.”

“Really? Robert mentioned—”

“Yeah, I might’ve misled them a little. Didn’t exactly want the department in my business.”

“Yet they always seem to be, huh?”

Thirteen smirks at you, hums her assent.

“Surprised House didn’t catch on,” you add sardonically, before you can stop yourself. He’s not the person you want to bring into the conversation, but he always seems to come up anyways.

“He was a little preoccupied,” she explains. “A building collapsed; Cuddy dragged him to the site. Think he ran into a bad case.”

“Heard about that," you reply. "Didn’t they get together, afterwards?”

“Who?”

“House and Cuddy.”

“Wait, really?” Thirteen snorts, green irises flicking across your face. Her eyeliner is sharp enough you feel like you could prick a finger on it.

“I don’t get much gossip from PPTH anymore, but—”

“Jesus Christ, she’s much too good for him. And that bastard didn’t even say anything about it.”

“He didn’t—” The realization hits you mid-sentence. “He didn’t say anything about it when?”

Pursing her very sculpted lips, Thirteen drawls, “He didn’t say anything about it _today_.”

“You saw House today?”

“You _really_ don’t keep in contact with the hospital, I guess.”

“Well, I—” You want to offer an explanation, but there’s no reason all your cards should be on the table if she’s going to be so goddamn tight with her own hand. You’re about to give some convoluted, misleading mess of an answer when you realize, you don’t play those mind games anymore. “That’s a conscious decision,” you finally answer.

“Okay, fair.” She smiles again, and you can just about see hackles that went up earlier relaxing. Thirteen shakes her head. “You had the right idea, you know. I should have gotten out sooner. Where are you working now?”

“Mercy Memorial? It's about another twenty minutes of commute, but, well…you know.”

"Hmm. ER still?”

“For some reason, even the chaos there barely compares to House’s average DDX.”

She laughs. It's just a little puff of breath that escapes her, but the booth is warming slightly now.

“So really, where have you been?”

Thirteen sighs, sets down her glass with some finality, makes eye contact for a silent moment. “Prison,” she finally blurts, then looks at you like she’s just suggested a dare.

You’re not going to take the bait. “Oh, c’mon, Thirteen.”

She grins at her old nickname, seems to take it as encouragement. “No, _really.”_

That makes you pause, and you start to reach for answers the way you’ve been taught. Well, perhaps _taught_ isn’t the right term. House’s pedagogy was mostly based on moderate hazing, prying, and moral gymnastics, with a generous dollop of hypocrisy thrown in.

Despite his many faults, however, you have to give the man credit for his ability to read people. He knew you, just like he knew the rest of his team, and the doctor in front of you was no exception. You never really got to know her, although you do know from experience House asked his team to do things that…challenged the law, to say the least. But Thirteen left of her own accord, and is notorious for keeping her secrets to herself. You lean forward too, propping your elbows on the table, and meet her stare head-on.

“Okay,” you say, “I’ll bite. Why were you in prison?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “That’s not how this works.”

"How what works?”

Thirteen rolls her eyes, then draws her eyebrows together to give you a very catty, _don’t play stupid_ look. You can tell that she’s simultaneously a little drunker than you and better at hiding it.

“You tell me how you found yourself here, and I’ll tell you the same.”


	2. Thirteen Questions [Remy]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long day, Remy is surprised at who approaches her table.

_I’ll kill you,_ he’d said.

It was maybe the first real promise you’d ever heard House make. After you’d gotten out of the car, the statement had echoed in your ears, ricocheting around the inside of your skull painfully. It was solace that you felt then: the smallest thread of comfort after a very long day, but ultimately, not one that wasn’t owed. House _had_ spent most of the day being, well, himself—an _incorrigible asshole._ Your curses in life had always been different—him, with pain and a craving for truth; you, with a death sentence and a prodigious ability for self-deceit. Despite his lectures and indelicate jabs, you’ve always known your pursuits were the same. It was just an endless search for a little purpose, a little meaning. House had always been a staunch nihilist, but if he really thought it didn’t matter, he wouldn’t have given you his word. It is a lasting promise, one you are sure he knows you need to get through the days ahead. And that means more than the act itself will. 

At least, that’s the conclusion you’d arrived at, back in your old apartment in Princeton, which was covered in dust and exceptionally empty. You’d tried to mull over the day alone, but soon enough the silence in the empty rooms had become deafening. After all, what was the promise of an oblivious end without living first? It had occurred to you, sitting alone on the sparse furniture you hadn’t seen in almost a year, that you were finally free. You had kept your own promise, and now it was time to honor—or at the very least, fill—the time you had left.

Morbidity doesn't suit you. A regular life had never been in the cards, but sometimes you wonder if you could have been a more pleasant person had there not been a metaphorical axe hanging over your head. Then again, in that other world you probably never would have gone to medical school.

Either way, it is a bad night to ponder past choices alone. You’d decided to head to the bar, more out of nostalgia than the desperate need for pursuit and shallow satisfaction that used to bring you to out at night. You’re not looking for company tonight—at least, not actively. It was enough to see people, to be reminded that outside of your world another still turned, and it would perhaps welcome you back.

And then a ghost from the past had walked right up to your table. Who would’ve thought that by venturing out, you’d get more nostalgia than you bargained for? Dr. Allison Cameron is sitting in front of you like a living tribute to a time when you still had a brother, to a time when you were still trying to convince yourself you could run from the ticking clock snapping at your heels.

To give credit where it is due, Cameron is cuter than you remember. The simple shock of seeing her, here of all places, had been enough to drive away the cloud of thoughts for a moment. It was like a little prepackaged gift, ready for you to unwrap. Turns out, even House’s old team has their share of secrets. 

“That’s not fair,” Cameron is saying now, in response to your suggestion. She rolls her eyes a little. A strand of blonde hair is falling over one eye, and there’s a light touch of color in her cheeks. “I’ve already—”

“I know a bad deflection when I hear one,” you cut her off. Hell, you spend too much of your time coming up with decent ones.

Cameron smiles a little, flashing dimples. You give her the once-over again and try to reason it out. Allison Cameron, at a gay bar. Funny you’ve never thought of her as Allison _Chase,_ even though those two were married almost the entire time you’ve knew them. It never occurred to you, that maybe she was…

“You go first then,” she says.

“I wasn’t the one who asked a question.”

“Oh, c’mon, if we’re trading secrets prison is _way_ more interesting. Go on, spill. How did House even know to pick you up today?”

You grin, starting to enjoy yourself. “Want to talk about House, do you?”

Cameron plays with the straw in her drink and flips cool blue eyes up at you under a fan of dark lashes. “What was that about bad deflections?”

And here everyone had told you she was the soft one on the old team. Or maybe in the time since she quit the department, she’s learned to be this wily. “House picked me up from Middlebury Correctional this morning.”

“And?”

“And when did you realize _you_ did it both ways?”

Cameron laughs, shakily, more delighted than offended. She’s really blushing now, the pink flush spreading across her cheeks and nose. “Who says I do?”

“Oh, just walked into the wrong bar, did we? Too tired to read the sign?”

“Shouldn’t you be able to tell, _Thirteen_?”

“You were married to _Chase,”_ you blurt.

 _“_ What’s that supposed to mean?”

She’s definitely too smart to play this dumb. You raise an eyebrow and leave it there, meeting her stare until she looks away and bites at her lip to keep the grin down. “He’s not…that bad. You should’ve met him when I first started with House.”

“Mm, was he a little less smarmy?”

“Oh, definitely more so. Kissed House’s ass twenty-four seven too.”

You let out a snort. You can see that. Chase is a good friend now, but you’d be hard pressed to say that you didn’t need some time to warm up to the man. “Really, how did you guys get together?”

“Is that a second question?”

“You haven’t even answered my first.”

“Alright, so I’ve been married to men. Doesn’t mean my tastes run exclusively in that direction.”

“Men?” you ask. “In the plural?”

Cameron’s smile drops right off her very pretty face, and for the first time since she approached the table she looks genuinely uncomfortable. Perhaps you were more on the nose than you thought, about those secrets.

But it's supposed to be an entertaining conversation, and you are starting to feel rather magnanimous. There’s a bit of a rush in your head, and you revel in the feeling as you decide to let her off the hook. “Makes sense, actually. If you’d had a _wife_ House would never have let us hear the end of it.”

That startles a laugh out of her. “Yeah, to be honest, I think Chase and I threw him a bit. Not that we were sleeping together, but more that we stayed…”

Stayed together, you want to finish for her, as you realize that’s rather a moot point now. Break ups, even divorces—they seem grey now, so trivial they are but blips on the radar. You look at the woman seated across from you, the way she’s acting like something vital has been taken from her, and you remember that not everyone can think like that. Not everyone can think like they’re dying. You doubt Cameron regrets it—the way you’ve remember it, she was the one who wanted to split up.

But you know the expression on her face; she looks lost, uncertain, and _tired_. You see that expression in the mirror most mornings, and it’s comforting to recognize it on someone else. Suddenly you’re a little ashamed, that you feel _consoled_ by her loneliness, almost gratified. You certainly couldn’t have predicted you’d be tiptoeing around Cameron’s old wounds more than your own.

“Sorry.” Apologizing has never come easily, but it wasn’t your intention to make her feel _bad_ _._ “Didn’t mean to interrogate you.”

“No,” Cameron says, collecting herself, “it’s not—I don’t—well. It’s not the divorce, really. It’s just…been a weird year.”

“You can say that again.” You pause, finish off your drink. “So, I take it you’re _not_ looking for a hookup.”

That clears the air considerably. It’s Cameron’s turn to snort, and now instead of embarrassed you think she might be…flattered? “Really, I just stopped in on the way home. And I’m really not in the mood to be hit on by a bunch of men that don’t seem to understand or care that I’d very much like to be left alone.”  
  
“What’s to say you’re not a subject of interest _here?”_ you ask, not bothering to remark that she has a rather high opinion of herself. Mostly because it’s not unwarranted; that smile is ridiculous.

Cameron’s turning red again, as if she heard the thought. “Nothing, really. Women are just…more _polite.”_

You take a second to laugh, really let yourself feel the vibration in your chest. It’s been a while, since you’ve been able to laugh without forcing it. “You’re at a lesbian bar because you just can’t bother turning down men anymore?”

“Well,” she grins cheekily, “the view _is_ also better.”

“You want to elaborate on that?”

“Not particularly. I think it’s time for your question, Thirteen.”

“Alright, fine. Shoot.”

“Why were you in prison?”

“So you want to get _right_ into it.” For someone who’s acting so guarded, Cameron’s all ready to be nosy now.

“Don’t be a tease! _You_ brought it up!”

A tease? You can do better than that. “Start somewhere else,” you smirk at her.

“Why?”

You tip your empty glass in her direction. “If we’re going to be swapping life stories, Cameron, I need to be a _little_ more drunk.”

“Going to prison is your life story? I guess House _would_ happily hire a felon, but—”

“I think it qualifies as a significant life _event,_ don’t you?”

“Fine, then.” Cameron glances down at your glass, and as she meets your eyes again that lovely smile is devilish. “I guess I’m buying.”


	3. Uninhibited [Allison]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little conversation, and an invitation.

Two drinks and an absolutely unadvised shot of tequila later, you’re feeling a little faint. It was a classic game—drink if you can’t answer—and you’re annoyed you let her goad you into it. You should probably have slowed down, but she was just getting into the details of the spud gun competition and the heady rush had started to feel _good._ Not that Remy didn’t get her fair share of information from you, either. You can tell that being so guarded has also granted her an effortless ability to pry secrets from others. She pressed, of course, about past partners, past relationships; you’d skirted around Bob and Chase, told her about the few times you’d slept with women in college. It was a long time ago, not something you try to dwell on, but she seemed rather amused to know.

It’s nice, to answer questions about yourself, and for it to be fun rather than invasive. You haven’t let loose in a long time; too long, maybe. It had seemed important, to maintain a firm grip on reality, to get back to a place where you understood where lines were drawn and how to have _some_ kind of moral standard. Why that was so important, you can’t remember anymore. All you know at the moment is that Thirteen—Remy—looks absolutely radiant.

She’s got the faintest sheen of sweat across her forehead, and she’s a little flushed, though probably nowhere near as drunk as you are. Remy’s hair still falls perfectly around her face, and she’s laughing, which lights up the entire booth. She’d asked you to stop using her old moniker about an hour ago, and it felt like an invitation, from a woman who didn’t even care to share her name when competing for a job. Then again, you have a habit of reading _far_ deeper between the lines than you need to be.

“And you ended up bailing _him_ out?” you ask as she finishes her story, choking back a laugh.

“C’mon.” Remy grins, grey-green eyes flashing. “Don’t tell me you can’t picture House in jail.”

“I’m just surprised it took him that long to get there.”

“Trust me, he knew the _full_ consequences of his actions. How is it that he always ends up stumbling into messes that then sort themselves out perfectly?”

You shrug. “I think it’s because he _doesn’t_ care. He’s not worried about consequences, and so he doesn’t go out of his way to avoid them. And that means that usually someone else does all the work for him.”

“Sure, sometimes. But not always.”

“I can count on one hand the times I’ve seen House feel genuinely bad about _anything,_ much less take responsibility for it _."_

Remy glances at you, mouth twitching into a smirk. “Well, he just doesn’t happen to wear his heart on his sleeve.”

You lean back, doing a very bad job of pretending you’re offended when you’re really just trying not to stare. “I’m not _that_ transparent. We’re all human; we know suppressing emotion—or masking it with something else—only makes things worse in the long run.”

“Doesn’t mean we have to share everything either.”

“No, 'course not.” You grin at her. "We can just opt to share nothing at all, and by doing so pique everyone’s interest. Don’t you know that doesn’t take any attention off of you?”

“Giving people answers only makes them want more,” she replies, unperturbed.

“And what’s so wrong with sharing once in a while?”

“Nothing, until it becomes more than once in a while. I tell what needs to be told to those who need to know. It’s a little more efficient.”

“I get it,” you say, “no, I really do. I suppose to some people there’s an appeal in being a brick wall.”

“I mean, that’s not necessarily what I’m looking for in someone _else.”_

“Says the person here who dated _Foreman.”_

“Woah! Hey, no.” It’s her turn to be a little dramatic, as she slides an olive off a toothpick and points it at you. “Exes are off limits, we’ve established that.”

“Foreman, though?” You press the question, feeling a little giddy. “Really?”

“He’s not a complete hardass.” She chews on her olive, and then adds, “Well, not always. And he was…sweet.”

“To you, sure. Did you know he pretty much stole one of my papers once? I only found out once he’d been published.”

That was an eon ago, and you’d almost forgotten about it, but it seems like a good point to make. Besides, you have to get her back for the incredulity about Chase earlier. The men both of you have worked with have their faults, but everyone makes mistakes.

Remy’s already opened her mouth to reply, but just closes it with a snap and lifts her eyebrows in acknowledgement. “Okay, fine. He was rather in love with his career.”

You assume you’ve won your little debate when she suddenly turns to you, eyes bright.

“Wait a second.”

“What?”

“You can’t talk! _I_ once heard that you went out with _House.”_

You let out a long sigh. “When will people stop bringing that one up? It was ages ago, and it was _one date.”_

“But why would you want to—"

“I don’t know,” you cut her off, then stare down into your glass. You can’t tell if you’re sobering up or just too drunk to tell. “He’s…House.”

She raises one eyebrow and twists her lips, incredulous. “I take it you’re into the whole damaged, brooding thing.”

“I—” You want to hide under the table, is what you want to do. You thought you’d learned how to be more confident, more assertive. Truth is, sometimes you don’t feel like you’ve moved on at all. It’s not that you’re still in love with House—it’s that you haven’t learned to want a _better_ relationship. “I guess I thought I could fix him.”

“Mm. That’s gallant of you,” Thirteen purrs.

“Oh, stop it. I’m not the same person I was then.”

“So who are you now?”

You swallow on a dry throat, the stale, bitter chemical aftertaste of liquor still seared into your tongue. “Someone who’s ready to have a regular job, I guess. A regular boss. Real expectations, not mindless obstacles.”

Remy frowns. “Wasn’t the challenge half the fun?”

“At first, maybe. He’s brilliant, but…” You try to reach for the words, try to explain the liberation the first time you left the department. How Chase came home with a man’s life on his hands, how you regret those decisions you can’t hope to take back, and all the worse choices you could have made instead. “But it’s not worth it.”

“I think he knew,” Remy says softly.

“Knew what?”

“No one who worked in that department wanted normal, or typical. Not really. We were all fucked up in our own ways, and House…wanted that. Wanted employees to mess with, under the guise of excellence.”

“Except it wasn’t a guise.” You sigh, suddenly feeling very tired. “It’s just not a trade I’m willing to make anymore.”

Remy’s expression tells you she knows something you don’t. “Do you think he’ll ask me to come back?”

“Probably. Do me a favor, and don’t pick up the phone.”

She smiles at you, holds your gaze for a long moment before turning away, glancing at her watch. “Damn, it’s getting late. I should probably head home.”

“Yeah, me too.” You turn, start sliding out of your seat. In the next moment, the whole room, which has been blurring considerably, tilts forty-five degrees in the wrong direction, careening sideways. You scramble to place your feet underneath you, barely managing to catch yourself on the table.

“Woah there,” Remy says, and suddenly she’s at your elbow, the other hand steady at your shoulder. “You alright?”

“Fine.” You try for a laugh, embarrassed, blinking to get back your bearings. Your head is really swimming, but you’re almost back in touch with your balance. “Maybe had a bit much.”

“C’mon, you need to get to bed,” she says, and you lean on her as she leads you out of the bar.

The night air feels wonderful against your sweaty forehead, and you rake a few pieces of hair away from your hair and sigh, looking up at the pitch-black sky as Remy hails down a taxi. You’re still a little unsteady, so she steps in with you, doesn’t protest as you rest your head against her shoulder after you give the driver the address. You _are_ tired, and without the burden of inhibition you can admit it feels incredible to have another warm _person_ with you again.

You almost doze off as the car threads through the streets of the city, and far too soon Remy is shaking you gently, saying you’ve arrived. You thank her, sit up, and she helps you out of the car and up to the front door, where you both pause.

“Uh,” you begin, “this was…fun.”

Remy's smile is steady; she's still in control, eyes shining. “Yeah. We should do it again sometime.”

Your heart leaps a little in your chest, and you hope she’s not just saying it as an empty suggestion. Biting your lip, you rest one hand on the doorknob and ask, “You want to come in?”

She shakes her head, but she's grinning. “I should…head home.”

“Someone waiting for you?” It's an unnecessary tease. She just got back from prison; you doubt she’s even moved back in.

Remy rolls her eyes, glances at the waiting car, back at you, then finally laughs.

“Okay, sure. Just for a minute.”


	4. Connection [Allison]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for the smut! Never actually written it before, so this is a bit experimental, but I figure Thirteen should know what she's doing :P

Remy grabs you a glass of water, because the swirling in your head has just begun to clear. You’re still lightheaded and a little euphoric. The lights in your apartment look simultaneously diluted and sparkly, but the wave of dizziness from earlier has faded. Remy is sitting on the other side of the couch with her own glass, considering you.

“Better now?” she asks.

You wave off the concern, secretly a little delighted. “I’m fine.” 

“You working tomorrow?”

“Only on-call in the afternoon.”

Remy sets down her glass, trails one hand slowly over the back of the couch, fingers playing with a thread coming loose from the seam. “You have a lovely apartment.”

“It’s a bit small, maybe,” you sigh. “You should have seen the place Chase and I got after the wedding, I’d just finished decorating.” It’s such a tiny detail, but it still gets to you. You’d thought you'd made it, last time, finally got it right.

“This place is cozy,” she says, taking a long look around the room.

“Glad you like it.”

She looks back at you, smiles slightly, and you realize you’re leaning forward, your shoulders almost touching. Remy pulls back gently, tilts her head and fixes you with that otherwordly gaze.

“What?” you ask.

She smirks, looks down. You realize your fingers are wound around her wrist; she’s resting her hand on the couch between you, and you’re almost cradling her fingers in your own palm. Remy shifts just slightly, giving you to the opportunity to withdraw, but you don’t let go.

“I don’t do that anymore,” she says quietly.

“Do what?”

“You know.” She shakes a strand of hair out of her eyes, clears her throat. “The drugs, the hookups, the strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger.”

Her face is just inches away now, and your breathing is getting shallower. She looks calm, collected, but you’re one tense nerve, trying not to shake. You’re wading in dangerous territory, feeling old habits creep back in: the need to help, to fix, to mend all the broken things you see. But lately, you haven’t been so sure you even can. All you want is a connection, a moment’s respite, a distraction if nothing else. You know that once she leaves there will be an unbearable coldness in your apartment, and tonight you’re not so sure you can face it alone.

“Allison—"

You lift your free hand, wind it through the hair behind her ear and bring your mouth to hers. It’s gentle at first, just the brush of lips, but as your apprehension fades the hunger claws upward through your chest. You press closer, feeling the tension in her shoulders drop as she parts her lips, breathes in harsh and fast, and starts kissing you back.

There’s a moment of nothing but the fragrant warmth of gin on her breath and her soft tongue sliding past your own, and then Remy pulls back.

“Sorry—” You take a gasp of air, halfway between desperate and humiliated. A gap of frigid space widens between you, and you scramble, not sure if you want to close it or are just too scared to try again. “I just—”

“It’s alright.” Remy’s eyes dart across your face. You can feel her exhale, the breath catching, as she weighs pros and cons in her head. Funny, that you thought in this situation you’d be the one holding back.

“No, I—” You have to explain, but there is no good way to phrase this. You wish you weren’t still so tipsy. You want to thank her properly for getting you home, tell her how much you needed this.

“Sometimes I think there’s something wrong with me,” you whisper, the words tumbling out too fast and too earnest to stop. “That I can’t stand being alone.”

“It’s not you.” Remy moves slightly closer, voice gentle, and your heartbeat steadies before spending up. “No one likes being alone. Some people are just better at...dealing with it.”

You force yourself to make eye contact, dreading the trace of pity you expect to see on her face, but there is none. “Are you? Ever…”

“Lonely? Of course.”

“But you don’t…don’t want to—“

“I do. I’m just asking if it’s a good idea.”

Those eyes, which looked green and then hazel in better lighting, are dark grey and serious now. She can see the decision, carefully laid out between you, and she’s letting you make it.

“Of course it’s not a good idea,” you growl, then throw pretense aside as you hook your fingers under her chin and close the distance between your lips again.

It’s something you’ve missed, the searing warmth of skin on skin, the lack of thought, just the pleasure of sensation as you kiss down her jaw, hands wrapping around her neck and waist. She’s much less sloppy, deliberate as she slides one hand up the back of your shirt, the other reaching up and cupping your jaw. She lifts your mouth back to hers, her tongue claiming the kiss triumphantly. The wave of nervous tension in your stomach shifts, and you moan softly, realizing a bit belatedly that _she’s_ the expert here, which means you’ve just given her the upper hand.

Remy's lips wet when she breaks the kiss, her mouth a hard line. She grabs your hand and pulls you bodily off the couch. “Bedroom,” she orders.

You comply, nearly dragging her down the hallway. You’re almost there when Remy traps your waist in her hands, pulls off your shirt in one fluid movement, and nearly devours you in her next kiss. A startled squeak escapes you as she maneuvers expertly past the door, banging it open, and pins you against the wall. You wrap one leg around her hip and press your stomach against hers, silently asking for more. Remy groans as you comb your fingers through her hair, nails scraping against the scalp, and then begins to kiss a long, slow trail all the way down your neck. The moan that escapes you is feral, demanding, and you can feel her laugh against your collarbone before she pulls off her own shirt.

God, but she’s beautiful: toned stomach, the soft curve of her breasts, flawless skin. You don’t know how you managed not to be thoroughly distracted the first time you saw her, because you’re certainly in awe now.

The thought evaporates as Remy reaches behind you, her long deft fingers working at the hook of your bra. You press closer so she can reach it better, and she’s flung it to the floor in the next second.

“And here I thought you weren’t eager,” you manage to gasp as her hand anchors under your thigh.

“I know what I want,” Remy retorts. “But it took you long enough to decide.”

You don’t have the breath to argue as she pulls you into the center of the room, then immediately pushes you back onto the bed and climbs on top, legs straddling your hips. You let her lead, head swimming, heart feeling like it might beat out of your chest. By the deliberate, careful line Remy’s licking down your shoulder you can tell she’s used to being in control, dictating the movement the way she wants. You’re perfectly willing to let her, melting into the sheets and groaning as she brings her knee between your legs and her lips back to your own.

You reach up and squeeze gently at her right breast as she kisses you, caressing the supple flesh and moving forward to roll her nipple between your fingers. With your other hand you reach around and cup her ass. Remy lets out a breathy moan into your mouth, then bites at your bottom lip.

Caught off guard, you let out a sharp whimper. Remy’s grinning as she heads downward again, you can feel it, lips and teeth tracing a searing pressure down to your right breast before her mouth closes around the nipple. She swirls her tongue around your areola and sucks gently, and you gasp, back arching.

“Ohh, fuck.” The wet warmth feels incredible, and in response she slides her fingers over your hips and begins tapping at the waistband of your panties.

“Do I need to slow down?” she asks.

Her chin rests on your stomach as she looks up at you, smirking, pure mischief in her eyes. You try to draw a breath and fail spectacularly, frustration building like a heat wave between your thighs.

“ _Fuck_ , no.”

“Who’s impatient now?”

You squirm, unable to control yourself. “Patience is overrated.”

The haughty satisfaction radiates off her as she slides between your legs and then off the edge of the bed, kneeling there as she grips your inner thighs with both hands.

“Open for me.”

You spread your legs, shaking, and she pulls your panties off slowly, still taking her time. One hand slips steadily toward your crotch, and then there's a warm probing as her thumb slides slowly up between the folds of your labia.

“You been this wet all night?” she asks as she slides another finger just inside your entrance, tracing a shallow, slick circle inside you.

It’s almost unbearable; you bite your lip hard, still wanting to challenge her. “Maybe.”

“Thought you were learning to be assertive,” she says, planting soft, wet kisses on the inside of your left thigh.

“ _Fuck,_ Remy, Jesus—” You drag in another breath, watch the ceiling swirl above you.

“Just ask,” she breathes, one finger still circling inside you as her tongue comes tantalizingly close to your clit.

“ _God_ — _fuck me_ , Remy.”

Her fingernails dig into your thighs, and you flex upward, hook one knee around her shoulder, shuddering at her touch.

“Ask, _nicely.”_

Oh, you’re ready to kill her. This isn’t playing fair; this isn’t even playing. You didn’t think she’d make you beg for it. “ _Please.”_

The next plea comes out as a low scream as she moves upward and begins circling your hood with two fingers, and then taps at your clit gently before rubbing over it in long strokes. The pleasure is exquisite, and a tight coil of warmth builds in your core and between your legs. You writhe on the bed, hands clutching at the sheets as Remy alternates between harsh and gentle strokes.

“Please,” you groan again.

You want to feel her inside you, are about to insist, but she seems to read your mind, two fingers gliding into you effortlessly, slow and deep. The first thrust is so powerful it almost hurts. You moan louder, muscles tightening around her knuckles as she builds into a slow rhythm, fingers curling. You grind further into her, hips bucking off the bed.

“Shh, relax,” Remy soothes, her voice thick and sultry. You hope she’s even half as wet as you are right now, because you’re already thinking of the things you’ll do to pay her back for this.

In the next second, she’s locked her left hand around your right hip, and inserts another finger as she quickens the pace, fucking you rough and deliberately. You can hear only one long, keening moan, and you’re trying to say her name, but the air won’t reach your lungs fast enough. Her hand keeps you pinned to the bed, unable to grind forward, and the pulse of her fingers inside you becomes nearly unbearable. You think your chest will burst as you see Remy lower her head. She hooks her fingers carefully inside you with every thrust, and as her tongue licks up through your folds again as you let loose with a guttural howl.

For a moment you're somewhere else, floating in deep waves of pleasure. You’ve never felt this alive, this wild with a frenzy of need. It’s not that you haven’t been satisfied before; on the contrary, Chase wasn’t half bad at it. But this is different—you’re sure Remy knows how to get you there, but she’s taking her sweet time, tuning the sensation to each breath, dragging out the seconds until you completely lose track of everything else, of the other parts of yourself.

Riding her hand, you buck hard against her jaw as the bed shakes. She’s not slowing, her tongue swirling over your folds and around your clit, sending shivers of ecstasy tingling like electricity up your spine, wiring through your entire body.

“God, that’s—right there— _ohhh—“_

Remy hums with pleasure, and the vibrations on your mound bring you right up to the edge. Her lips clamp down on your clit and suck just as her nails drag firmly across your G-spot, and the world goes a blinding white against the back of your eyelids as you shudder and come, screaming, your perception fracturing at the edges as the orgasm rips through you.

When you come to, you’re panting raggedly, finally able to register the stickiness between your legs as the sweat courses down your back. Remy kisses gently up your stomach again, the light in her eyes soft, reassuring.

“Holy shit. _Wow._ ”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Fuck, yes.”

Remy laughs and brings her mouth to your neck, lips sliding past your pulse as it slows. You’re spent, still basking in the afterglow. She moves to plant a light kiss on your mouth, and you arch up to taste yourself on her lips. You cradle her head in your hands, spend several long minutes recovering as she hums under her breath and kisses across the curve of your breasts. When she feels you shiver, she pulls you up into a sitting position, then climbs onto the bed. You manage to pick yourself up and join her as she throws the covers over both of you, trails her still-wet fingers down your leg and hip.

You want to roll her over and go again, you hands slipping down to her waistband, she pauses.

“Wait.”

“But…don’t you want me to—”

Remy shakes her head. You can’t read her face in the darkness, with only the light from the window and the hallway flooding into the room. “But you're a little out of practice, Allison.”

“I’m—you don’t know that.” You feel a little rebuffed, and frown, folding a piece of hair behind her ear. “Tell me what you want.”

“Not tonight,” she says, kissing you again. “I’m…very specific. And we need to rest.”

You wonder if she’s actually too tired, or just too unwilling to give up control to you. A bit of both, you imagine, but you don’t push it.

“Okay,” you say, “but you’ll teach me, later? What you want?”

She grins, a merciless, predatory promise. “I’ll think about it.”

Remy kicks off her pants—unfair, you think, that she got to do that to you without even fully undressing herself—and lie in each other’s arms for several long minutes. You trace slow circles over her back and hipbones as she holds you, nuzzling into your neck.

“Mm,” she says after a moment, “give me a second.”

She’s scrambled out of the bed before you can protest. You wait as you hear her walk into the kitchen, the sink running.

How does she do it? You know you’re not the first person she’s had her way with, but _you_ wanted this, tonight. You can already feel the emptiness in the sheets where she was lying just moment before. Perhaps you have a bad tendency to latch onto people, but you have to wonder if she ever finds it exhausting, physical satisfaction without the assurance of connection. You’re starting to got worried when she comes back, climbing back onto the bed and offering you your glass of water.

“Thanks.” You pause, and then add, “Didn’t think you’d be a such a stickler for hydration.”

“Always a good idea,” she says, a playful scold. “Besides, you don’t want a hangover tomorrow.”

No, you think, but perhaps there is something else you want out of tomorrow. You can’t pinpoint the feeling swirling in your stomach, don’t want to. Better not to put labels on things that don’t yet exist. You sip slowly at the glass, propped up on the pillows.

“What a night.”

“And I thought I’d had a long day,” Remy says, nudging you to make room.

You laugh as you move over, then finish your water and put it on the nightstand before sliding back under the sheets. You draw yourself against her, and she curls around you, draping her free arm around your waist as she rests her chin on the back of your shoulder.

It feels warm, and safe, so you close your eyes, tell the thoughts in your head to quiet. There are things you would be wondering, things perhaps that you _should_ wonder, overthink until you arrive at a satisfactory answer. But as Remy tucks the covers around you, you decide there will be time to figure it all out tomorrow.


End file.
